


Gulls

by BeBunny



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeBunny/pseuds/BeBunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New faces joined the familiar ones, nodding at Patrick where he leaned against the gunwale. He watched with interest as several dozen crates of dried fruit and hard tack were hauled aboard. The seagulls wheeled above them and Patrick could almost feel content. Almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gulls

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Dodgy nautical terminology, worse historical accuracy, This probably didn't happen...All people involved are probably time lords if it did, I obviously don't know them, so I can't ask!
> 
> Note: Inspired in part by this www.youtube.com/watch and this www.youtube.com/watch

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The creaking of the hull raked its way edgily into Patrick’s groggy consciousness. His limbs cramped and stomach more than a little unsettled from the swaying of the hammock. He sighed, the familiar bile taste rising in his throat as he remembered, like he had every morning so far, where he was.

A few weeks ago, following a fight he hadn’t started with one of the other deckhands, he had finally resigned himself to accepting where he was and the shit he’d somehow landed himself in. He remembered almost nothing about the night of his press ganging except that some guy in the tavern had an easy smile and liked to laugh and had bought Patrick ale after ale after ale. When he had emerged into the street, dodging the wagons to throw up lavishly against the wall, bodies had pressed against him, there was a shadow, or many, and the world had gone suddenly, and painfully, black.

This is where he had woken up, no land in sight, nor birds, gruff, unshaven men around him, and no explanation. “_The King needs men”_, had been the only reply to his confused and desperate questions directed at anyone who made eye contact with him.

So for nearly two months he had focussed on surviving on this brutal, pseudo-naval boat, run by harsh, barking monsters in blue uniforms with their strict regimes and night watches. He knew nothing about boats or ships, learning by finding anyone who was too tired to shove him away.  So far he had escaped too many beatings, or any kind of flogging, which happened aboard with alarming regularity. He threw up over the side the first time he had witnessed a sailor hauled up to the mast and tied at the wrists. His back had been a bloody mess when they hauled him away. Patrick tried not to look too closely at the scars crisscrossing many of the crew’s sunburned and tattooed backs.

He was clumsy at first; growing in confidence as time stretched on aboard their floating prison. He learned how to handle ropes and clean rifles alongside some of the younger cabin boys. Although his age meant he outstripped them in size and strength he didn’t feel as intimidated by them as the crew on deck, they joked and laughed and called him Lark, since he couldn’t match the rough rumbling of the older men in their shanties. Instead his voice was clear as a bell and he sang in unconscious harmony with the others. He could relax then; they shared their grog and coaxed him to sing under the oil lamp’s light, as far from the glaring, dark eyes of the Captain and his hard-nosed officers as they could get.

When the first drunken sailor had come to his hammock, whispering and groping, he had been alarmed and more than a little afraid. He had endured the encounter in silence because he had been more afraid of the consequences if he refused, or was discovered. Many turned out to be like the first, blaming his soft voice and hazel eyes. They stroked his face and told him he was the closest thing to a woman they had. He became used to the attention, but it ruined the nights for him when they pulled him up on deck to sing, too many eyes on him, and too many hooded expressions. He took to wearing a dark felt cap with a wide peak he’d won gambling, shielding his eyes from both the sun and the invitations of the other sailors.

It was nothing however, compared to the first time an officer summoned him. He had run to the prow that night, afterwards, the bleary eyes of the night watch following his shadow as he fled to pitch-stained tarpaulins and sailcloth stacked up against the foremast, he hid there, cursing his cowardice as he shuddered and retched against the north wind.

~~*~~  
   
When they had nearly six months behind setting sail, they approached a Moroccan port of some disrepute. Patrick understood the captain hoped to recruit more men, having lost a number of them a month earlier to Typhus. He was not allowed to touch shore however, the worst of the officers had backed him into a corner and snarled at Patrick about _‘___running off__’ and ‘_duty__’ _Instead he watched as the crew collected their pay at the captain’s supervision and crowded noisily towards the port town, laughing and joking about Barbary Whores.

He hid then, afraid of the officers and their rough, demanding hands, and curled, cruel mouths, afraid of what they would do to him without the threat of discovery by the crew or the captain. He succeeded, spending two days curled up in the hold alongside empty crates and half full barrels of spring water dreaming of a ship of his own.

It was evident from the mood of the returning crew that they had been successful in their search for new hands. New faces joined the familiar ones, nodding at Patrick where he leaned against the gunwale. He watched with interest as several dozen crates of dried fruit and hard tack were hauled aboard. The seagulls wheeled above them and this close to land Patrick could almost feel content. Almost.

The boarding was nearly over, and a senior officer was calling a roster when Patrick first caught sight of him. A broad white smile lit up a dark eyed, dark haired face as he joked with one of the ship’s recruiting bluecoats.  Patrick swallowed; he didn’t think he had ever seen anyone so alive, so completely radiant with energy and charisma. He had a sudden image of _this_ man coming to him in the night, his smile flashing in the twilight, and alarmingly, Patrick did not recoil at the thought. The grinning man caught Patrick’s eye and if possible his smile grew even more, his eyes sparkled. Patrick nodded and ducked his head. He couldn’t have done anything else.

~~*~~

  
It wasn’t until they were under sail that Patrick and the stranger encountered each other again. It was under less than graceful circumstances, and later, when Patrick was nursing his bruises he could let the embarrassment wash over him, feeling his face flush and his eyes close as he smiled. The stranger had caught him by the elbows as he’d tripped over an errant rope, gasping and dropping the bucket he was carrying.

“Easy there!” He’d grinned, Patrick had been grateful it wasn’t a laugh. He wasn’t sure why.

“Sorry!” He’d hiccoughed “Did I get you?”

The stranger shook his head, laughter in his eyes if not on his lips.

“Pete” He’d held out his hand, more than any other sailor had done, Patrick had learned that was largely guilt, none of them agreed with the pressgangs, and Patrick was a constant reminder, much like some of the younger cabin boys and the bearded mute that stayed soley in the galley.

“Patrick” He replied, taking the proffered hand. It was warm, and calloused and slightly smaller than his, leading to a richly tattooed arm. Pete grinned and jutted his chin forwards. “Great to meet you!”

Patrick lifted a hand and scratched distractedly at the back of his neck. “Well as great as it can be I suppose.” Pete had wrinkled his nose and grinned again.

~~*~~

  
Weeks later Pete had traded his porthole hammock for one near Patrick's and by hook or by crook they made sure they were rarely apart. Pete made life bearable to Patrick aboard the ship. He knew at all times where he was, but the first time Pete had taken a beating instead of Patrick for some slight indiscretion Patrick washed his bruises and scrapes in neat rum in the moonlight. Pete’s smile was reassuring and forgiving, his assured his friend that he’d taken plenty before and given out more than a few in the past. Patrick still felt appalled though, for as much that Pete could bear pain better than him.

Pete watched helplessly and miserably whenever officers summoned Patrick, knowing for as many beatings he could shield Patrick from that they would both likely be hung, or keelhauled if he interfered with this. He headed off advances from the rest of the crew however, staying awake long enough that his sharp words and the threatening flash of a hard glare that any sailor coming to Patrick’s hammock at night was repelled. Soon it was understood that Pete had a claim of sorts to their Lark, and the crew sought some other bird that came without the cat. Patrick was grateful for the respite, but missed being asked to sing.

   
~~*~~  
 

The sun was making its inevitable dip towards the horizon when Patrick found Pete distracted and pacing near the stern of the ship, his fingertips brushing the darkened wood of the barrels lined up against the hull as he passed them. He frowned deeply as he caught sight of Patrick and almost looked like he was considering an escape route. He obviously knew better, there was nowhere he could have gone on a ship even of this size.

Patrick caught his arm as he turned away. “What?!” he hissed.

Pete snapped his arm away and wrung his hands together, he looked intensely uncomfortable. “Look...” he started. “Look...you hate it here right?

Patrick blinked. “Yes, yeah, you know I do”

Pete sucked at his top lip. He exhaled. “Ok, I just need you to not forget that?”

Patrick was a little frightened at this change in his friend; he scrunched up one side of his face and frowned. “You want to tell me?”

Pete shook his head. Patrick kept his eyes on Pete’s face. He wasn’t sure yet how far he trusted Pete, but there was such a small worried expression on his face that he wanted to save him, save both of them, to be somewhere they wouldn’t have to keep shift and sleep in hammocks and avoid the harsh justice of the drunken officers.

“Just be ready if I come to find you ok?” Pete sighed.

Patrick raised an eyebrow, now he was sure he wasn’t going to like what was coming, he wasn’t going to like it at all.  
   
~~*~~  
 

It came suddenly, in the early hours of the morning, while the night watch were exhausted and the day shift were still abed and dozy. Loud shuddering crashes and the groaning of split timber, screaming, yelling voices, and then, an impact that threw the ship sideways and dumped Patrick out of his hammock, tangled and not knowing which direction was up. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, hammering against his ribcage in desperate rhythm. His first immediate  thought was for Pete, shaking, he climbed the ladder into a nightmare.

Everywhere men were fighting, blade clashed violently against blade and men thrashed violently against each other. The attackers were swarming the ship, more tattooed and feral than the sailors of Patrick’s own ship, grinning, sweating, cursing wildmen.

“Pirates!” Patrick hissed, fear rising in his gut, every late night sailor’s tale flung around inside his head. He tried praying under his breath, but only the shanties came, and he whispered those to himself as he crept up to the deck.

He knew he was risking everything, but he only had his own life left, and all he wanted was to find Pete. His eyes scanned the bodies on deck, praying fervently until a he caught sight of tattoos he knew, better than the back of his own hand. Pete was gripped in wrestling combat with an attacker, Patrick pushed his way through the press of bodies until he was within reach and his heart stopped in his mouth, Pete was wrestling with no pirate, but with a sailor, a member of his own crew!

His confusion only worsened when Pete finally managed to sling his attacker overboard. Pete grabbed his hand and dragged him to the ropes from the other ship.  
   
“You!” Patrick’s tone was harsh and disbelieving. “You fucking did this!”  
   
Pete grimaced and pulled Patrick out of the reach of two knife-wielding combatants. He gripped Patricks shoulder and spoke swiftly and desperately into his ear.  
   
“You can come with us; it’ll be like life on the sea should be! The freedom ‘Trick, you’ve no idea! Please! Don't make me leave without you!”  
Patrick’s heart nearly burst, Pete’s eyes shone with fire, an intensity reflected in the actions of those still fighting on deck. Behind him, a few of the pirates wrestled stolen cargo onto their ship and above, near the great wheel he was sure he saw two of the officers go down under the cutlass of a laughing pirate. He had no idea where the captain was, and he realised he didn’t care.  
   
“Alright.” His mouth was set in a thin line. “I’ll come, but you have to answer for this!”  
   
Pete’s face relaxed, he gripped Patrick’s head in his hands, fingers in his hair, under the band of the dark hat, and kissed him, hard, but brief. “You bet!” He grinned, dragging Patrick up over the gunwale, onto the deck of the pirate ship. They stood in triumph until, for the second time, something red and painful shut down Patrick’s consciousness, he fell to the deck, deaf to Pete’s yell of anguish.

  
~~*~~

“_Is he alive you think?”_

“_Dunno, ‘s breathin’, guess he must be”_

Patrick’s eyes opened blurrily to a bearded face, which expanded to include blonde, shaggy hair and an expression of deep concentration. Something was moving his arm about.

He made a noise of protest.

“Hey, lookit, he is alive!”

The blonde face didn’t look up, but did grunt. “You got hit by a stray shot” It was a bland statement, like it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Patrick looked down, and saw the man was winding a clean white bandage around his arm. A pile of alarmingly bloody strips of cloth were on a nearby table. Another face appeared next to the first, this one small and mischievous and almost as full of energy as Pete. Both of them had pierced lips, Patrick found himself fascinated.

The smaller face spoke again, excited, and grinning.

“I’m gonna get Pete!”

Patrick nodded and tried to sit up, the blonde man, helped him, or rather, simply hauled him upright, Patrick didn’t really need to expend much effort at all.

“Bob” The man said.

“Patrick” Patrick said. And that was that.

Pete appeared moments after, full of relief and smiles and a hug for Patrick. He held his hand as Bob finished his administrations and Patrick gripped it just as tightly.

“You’re safe” Pete sighed into Patrick’s palm moments later. “Welcome to _my _home, I think you'll find it much more agreeable than your last vessel”

Patrick doubted it, surely this ship must have a captain too, but Pete was so earnest that he didn’t want to break the mood.

“I need some air Pete” he said “really I’m fine, my arm hurts, but the rest of me works”

Pete looked at him sharply, with a peculiar expression of amusement on his face. Patrick didn’t know how to read it, so he let it slide. Pete hauled Patrick up onto his feet with Bob’s help and they made their way out onto the deck.

The ship was not so full of people as his own, and even with less hands the ship seemed to be running at a much more leisurely pace. No sneering overseers stood threateningly close while bent-backed sailors hauled roped and swabbed decks. There were those doing the work, but they hung upside down in the rigging and yelled to one another in excited tones, oblivious to the wind and height, they were exhilarating to watch.

Beside the Mast stood a group of maybe four or five men, all dressed much like the rest of the pirates in black and red, except their dress was not for working, but for looking. A man not much taller than Patrick in a long tailored coat, red ruffed sleeves, his hair falling blackly and messily around his face was talking animatedly to the man Patrick had seen with Bob, who was dancing on the balls of his feet.

Pete walked Patrick up to them and introduced him, smiling openly at all of them, the taller man turned his eyes on Patrick and he felt his heartbeat throb. He offered his hand in greeting as Pete had once done for him and the man took it, shaking it neatly and firmly.

“Gerard” He said simply. “I suppose I’m captain of this bucket and its useless crew.” There was mirth behind his startling, kohl lined eyes and Patrick saw the others around him groan and grin in equal measure. The captain gestured to a thin man standing at his elbow, taller than all of them. “Michael, my brother” and gesturing to the smaller wired creature with the pierced lip he said simply “Frank”

Frank leaped at Patrick and putting his face very close to his chin he grinned, and his teeth looked very sharp.

“Pete’s keeping you!”

~~*~~

Life aboard the pirate ship was nothing like Patrick would have imagined. The crew were amiable and liked to sing even more than the crew Patrick had known. They always sought him to join them after they found him singing quietly as he wound ropes on the foredeck.  Patrick blushed but found they could match his volume and they taught him more songs and rewarded his enthusiasm with applause. No favours were asked, none were offered.

Gerard had a huge wooden fireside chair nailed to a platform behind the ship’s wheel; he spent most of his time draped in it, his hands dangling over the arms and his feet up on a barrel. He loved tales of adventure, and the crew would be rewarded with a flashing smile and rum the more outrageous they could make them. Patrick spent sunset evenings with Pete’s arms wrapped protectively around him listening to tall tales of dragon slaying and expeditions to the frozen glaciers of the north, where the pirates would claim they had seen bears bigger than the ship and mermaids with jewels in their hair. Gerard himself never put the rum to his own lips though. Long after the crew were drunk and asleep Patrick often saw him stand with his face to the wind, eyes dark, searching the horizon.

Patrick never joined the others when they raided other ships, their flag, a grinning skull, was known, and he was always relieved when a ship simply relinquished their cargo instead of fight against the cackling hooting pirates. No one blamed him for this, they did it for the adrenaline, and for revenge, and a thousand other reasons, none more pertinent than because they wanted to, and they could.

He found himself waiting with Gerard and Michael, and their navigator, a softly spoken and foot sure man named Ray, heart in his mouth until Pete was back on board. He never felt sorry at the losses for a ship manned by blue coated officers however, his gaze was always grim and teeth set until the fight was over.

The ultimate luxury however, was the cabin he shared with Pete. This ship had once been used to carry well to do families from port to port as well as cargo, and the captain’s favourites had cabins to themselves on the middle deck. Patrick slept at night curled up in a tangle with Pete in sheets, on a mattress, and never suffered the nausea that the hammocks always afforded him at daybreak.

He smiled at the nests in the hold though, where the rest of the pirates slept. They had tacked sketches, feathers, silks and all sorts of paraphernalia above their hammocks and pads. One hammock had a collection of rosaries swinging above it, each from a different port apparently, another had pages and pages of poetry nailed to the walls surrounding it. Patrick could read, having once come from an educated family, and the words scrawled over the parchment made him run to Pete, searching for sanctuary.

~~*~~

One night the wind was so strong that the sails were dropped, and the crew stooped low and heavily along the deck, so not to risk being swept overboard. They were unhurried and calm however, the ship was close enough to land that they could port to relative safety if a storm broke, in one of the coastal bays. 

Patrick had retreated to the cabin, Pete stretched out beside him, they hummed the folk songs they knew from land, and the shanties they knew from sea, laughing as Pete changed the words of the song to include them instead, or people they knew and their adventures, both real and fantastical. 

Pete slid down the mattress until his legs dangled from the edge, he sat up and slipped his arm around Patrick’s waist. He gave him a grin that reached all the way to the depths of his eyes and kissed Patrick once on the cheek. His hand began to stroke the skin in the small of Patrick’s back, their face still only inches apart. He stopped as he felt Patrick freeze.

“What’s wrong?” He frowned.

Patrick shook his head briefly as if his hair was in his eyes.

“I don’t know what?” Patrick sighed, he had thought about it, but all his experiences with intimacy had been tinged with violence, and he didn’t know how not to be afraid. He knew Pete meant safety and warmth, and here in this cabin, he desperately wanted to touch him and even more to please him, show him gratitude for pulling him out of the drowning depths. He didn’t know how.

Pete looked thoughtful for a second, and Patrick was about to ask him more, but Pete raised a finger to his lips, his head cocked to one side. “That’s convenient.” Was all he said. He took Patrick’s hand and led him to the door.

Across the cramped hallway was the cabin Bob shared with Frank. There was a porthole sized window in the door and one further down in the wall. It had once been the ship’s doctor’s office, which is why Bob now had it for his cabin.

Pete gestured towards the porthole and Patrick took the cue, peering in through the smoky glass to the interior. Inside he could see a mattress much like the one he shared with Pete, and boxes stacked up against the walls, it was like a larger version of the nests in the hold, artefacts and fabrics tacked to the wall everywhere. It took him a moment before he saw there were shapes moving on the mattress, He could see Bob and Frank together, very close together. Their limbs were entwined and they embraced in a kiss unlike anything Patrick had ever seen. Bob’s hands were everywhere on Franks body, his fingertips tracing the tattoos he couldn’t see, obviously from memory. They were both utterly naked.

Patrick drew in a sharp breath as they parted. Attracting a heavily lidded gaze from Pete, who watched from the other porthole.

Bob had stretched out completely on the mattress, a position that Patrick thought made him look wholly vulnerable. Frank nudged his way between Bob’s knees, kneeling above him, and they kissed again, Bob’s hands resting at the very base of Frank’s spine. Frank moved his kisses from Bob’s mouth to his bearded jaw, grinning and complaining, to his neck, making Bob’s back arch. He shifted his weight further back and ran his tongue down Bob’s chest, over his stomach, and when Bob lay back against the pillows teased the tip of his very erect cock.

Patrick had never witness anything like this; his experiences were clothed, uncomfortable and rapid, all parties looking for a swift and unspoken conclusion. He had never watched anyone take pleasure in the process, only relief at the outcome.

Pete had moved back to him, and slipped behind him, arms coiling around his waist as they watched Frank render lavish attention to Bob with his tongue, his lips, his eyes. Pete slipped a hand further down Patrick’s stomach and whispered huskily in his ear.

“Do you understand, do you want?”

Patrick felt like he did the first time he had seen Pete, for a second  he could only nod.

“_I want”_

Pete purred into his neck and mirrored the circular motions of Frank’s tongue on the tip of Bob’s cock on Patrick neck. Patrick could feel a heat like nothing else in his own dick. Pete’s cool hand was like a flood of relief when it reached him, gripping him with firm and insistent movements.

Patrick watched as Frank took Bob’s whole length in his mouth, Bob lifting himself up on his elbows, and arching his back even further. He could hear the moaning from outside the door. Pete’s hand was smooth and his other pulled him back against his chest, still kissing his neck, allowing Patrick to watch as much as he needed to.

Bob had collapsed now back against the bed, one hand gripping the sheets, his knuckles white, the other wound in Frank’s hair. Patrick could see Frank’s name on his lips, over and over again. Bob tensed hard as he came, the hand relinquishing the sheet to grasp Frank’s free hand, their fingers locking as Bob panted.

Pete turned Patrick around slowly and kissed him more tenderly that Patrick had ever been touched before. He led him back to their own bed where he showed Patrick as much care and attention as Frank had shown Bob. Twice.

~~*~~

Patrick’s hand curled and twisted in the back of Pete’s shirt. “Where we going?” he asked, as Bob’s strong hands spun the wheel and Gerard shielded his eyes to the horizon. 

Pete shrugged. “I dunno, second star to the right?”

Beside Bob, Frank threw his head back and keened back at the gulls, arms thrown wide. Patrick tasted salt on Pete’s lips, turned towards the prow, and laughed into the wind.

 


End file.
